damalurbackup: (tested & approved)
[personal profile] damalurbackup
So here's the skinny: I started writing this Spock/McCoy story called "Heal Thyself," and I still absolutely adore the idea, but it's expanding in about eighteen new directions since I started writing it and I hate the title and there is no way the thing is going to be finished in five parts, so I'm restructuring the story and posting it in the same manner as my other (sadly neglected) WIP, which means one scene at a time, no beta, no crossposting, just whatever spills out of me that day. I'm editing and reposting the first two parts right now, and I'll make a note when new material starts appearing.

Without further ado:

Blue (1/?). Spock/McCoy, Amanda, ensemble. All parts here.
The Vulcan's eyes narrowed a fraction; Bones read that as disapproval, tried to summon some measure of feeling, and completely failed to give a damn. "I have read your paper on the administration of inaprovaline as a treatment for cytotoxic shock in hominid lifeforms. Cadet McCoy, may I inquire—"


When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,
Desiring this man's art, and that man's scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least.
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply I think on thee, and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my state with kings.


—William Shakespeare, Sonnet XXIX




"A little suffering is good for the soul."

—Leonard H. McCoy (disputed)




I.


He loved the feel of a real, honest-to-God book in his hand. He loved the smell—musty and ancient, or sometimes clean and pulpy—and the texture of ink-on-paper under his fingers. Call him old-fashioned, as so many have, but for Bones' money a computer screen had nothing on pages and binding and a cover. Jim ribbed him about it sometimes, but Jim had little volumes of Dylan Thomas and Sun Tzu and Steinbeck squirreled away under his bed, so Jim could shove it. That—the books, not Jim—was why he found himself in the Academy Archives late one Saturday night. He could be at the bar, any bar, there were enough of them around, but he'd come home hammered two nights in a row, both times from trying and succeeding to drink some fresh-faced recruit under the table. Damn kids thought he couldn't hold his liquor.

He'd been meaning to dig up AA's old 1901 copy of Gray's Anatomy for ages. It had taken some elbow grease to wheedle his way into the head archivist's good graces, but Bones had finally managed an all-access pass to the climate-controlled room where the older medical texts sat. Tonight seemed as good a time as any to kick back and get a laugh out of old Henry's ideas on human anatomy.

'Cept, when he got to the room, someone was already there. Not even a human someone—a Vulcan someone, a Vulcan wearing a Fleet uniform. Hell, Bones hadn't even known there were any Vulcans in Starfleet.

He let himself into the room anyway, stepped through both steps of doors and hit the control panel to seal himself inside. The Vulcan wasn't reading anything, just gazing at a shelf with his hands clasped behind his back. Bones offered a nod; the Vulcan returned the gesture with a short dip of his chin, and Bones sidled past without further interaction.

The Gray's was sandwiched between two Russian pamphlets at the very end of the aisle. Bones rubbed his hands with the sanitizer provided at the end of every row and tugged the case free, turned to the long table in the far corner, and sat himself down, propping one foot up on the chair next to him.

"You are Leonard McCoy?" the Vulcan said.

"Yeah," Bones drawled. He figured he ought to salute, or something—the hobgoblin was wearing the pips of a lieutenant commander—but it was ass o'clock at night and he felt cranky, not because Jocelyn had called earlier.

The Vulcan's eyes narrowed a fraction; Bones read that as disapproval, tried to summon some measure of feeling, and completely failed to give a damn. "I have read your paper on the administration of inaprovaline as a treatment for cytotoxic shock in hominid lifeforms. Cadet McCoy, may I inquire—"

"Doctor McCoy," Bones interrupted.

"Pardon me?"

"That's Doctor McCoy to you. Hell if I'm going to let some higher-up that hasn't even introduced himself call me 'cadet.'"

"That is your rank—"

"And I have my M.D., which means even if I'm a raw recruit, you'll address me as 'doctor.'" He should've dropped the point already, just let it go, but he was in the mood to pick a fight.

The Vulcan lifted his eyebrows and said, "Forgive me, Doctor McCoy." He placed a hint of stress on the title, but Bones couldn't tell if he was being mocked or respected. "I can see that I have interrupted you."

"Yeah," Bones said again. "I didn't exactly come here for the company." With that he rocked back in his chair and flicked open his text. Henry Gray wanted to tell him about the structure of the human hand, but he found himself watching the Vulcan surreptitiously over the top of his book. Without moving his features, the other man managed to look sternly disapproving; but then the stillness returned, and Lieutenant Commander Stoicism pivoted smoothly on his heel and left.

Green-blooded bastard, Bones thought, and turned his attention to metacarpals and phalanges.


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September 2009

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